Doors of the Equator
by SilverCascade
Summary: A collection of drabbles about various Death Note characters, friendships, and rivalries.
1. Loyalty (L)

**A/N:**_ The epigraph applies to the title of the collection more than the drabbles themselves._

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**I have drawn the Doors of the Equator. They are shut. They are always kept shut, because a door ought always to be kept shut.  
~Rudyard Kipling, "How the Whale got his Throat"**

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When L has too much time on his hands, he thinks. And as narcissistic as it sounds, it's usually about himself. Watari says something before picking up the trays of half-eaten pastries and cold, wobbling tea. It is sudden and interesting, and, strangely, an incorrect observation by his usually astute guardian.

"Your loyalty to justice is remarkable, Ryuzaki."

Leaning back in his chair and tilting his head to stare at looping spirals on the ceiling, L cranes his neck with a loud crack. He knows he doesn't understand loyalty as anything more than an abstract concept. He is his own person, and though he relies on many, many others, countless blurs of names and faces and people he's supposed to think about but simply doesn't care for, he can't stifle his indifference. It's not cruelty that shapes his thoughts, but some base level of self-preservation, and he's aware of this. He's also unable to stop it.

Appreciation is one thing, and the detective appreciates them. They come from everywhere - crawling up from the criminal underworld like pungent, putrid rats, to bathing bodies coated in golden cloth and silver metal that showcases their false royalty. They help him. They leave when the time is right. And if he needs them again, Watari rounds them up; they can't say no to him, and it means he can ask whatever he wants. He _does_ appreciate them. Their fees should show that.

But alliance comes with attachment, and attachment comes with a price. Connection. Catharsis. Compromise. L has never been able to spare nor show those words, simply because hasn't found an entity worth his time. For the sake of accounting for variables, his mind adds a single word. Yet.


	2. Delirious (Matt)

Matt is certain that's not supposed to happen. Okay, so his knowledge regarding penguins is somewhat limited - but hey, he's a hacker, not a zoologist. It doesn't matter; it isn't _supposed_ to matter what penguins, rockhoppers or otherwise, do or don't do around him.

Except. Except he's certain penguins aren't supposed to swell like that. It's either pregnant - wait, didn't they lay eggs? or was that about ostriches? He thinks he wishes he'd paid more attention in biology, but then realises that's a joke, so he laughs instead.

Even the sound coming from his own mouth is wrong; distorted, like he's warbling an old Sinatra number without even realising it. Matt doesn't sing, ever, so he knows that can't be it. _God damn, what's going on?_

Maybe he's finally losing it. All that pressure, all that effort it took to get out of the House - maybe it's catching up to him. That stuff does take a swing at your skull after a while, and it's enough to make you delirious. And maybe being stranded in SeaWorld isn't the best idea, especially when you're all alone - well, he does have a joint in his pocket. Or five. And he can swear that only five minutes ago a pretty girl with big green eyes was sitting beside him, kicking her legs over the water as they joked about skinny dipping. Imagine that, skinny dipping with a pretty girl in SeaWorld. Mmm. That's the life, alright.

But when he looks to his right, then his left, she isn't there anymore. The joints are either too strong - though there's no such thing! - or Randall messed up his order with a little something-something extra. He doesn't know what it is, and he doesn't want to know. Sucks the fun out of it.

All of a sudden, the girl's beside him again, pale pink lips curling into a smile. Reaching out to touch her, he finds himself grinning, but the motions are loose and sloppy. He blinks. She vanishes. Only a fat black-and-white smear remains, beady eyes peering through the grille.

Staring at the starless, indigo sky, Matt is alone again. Alone with the joints of not quite the right stuff. Alone with the fucking penguins.


	3. Torture (BB)

Clean fingers run over the spines, soft tips dragging over ridges. It's like the man couldn't get enough, reading and reading and reading until the spines were mini trenches, lined with worn hard slivers. Beyond is surprised the spines have survived under such pressure; he only stops when the plastic peels back, his massaging finger loosening words from ink and ink from paper.

He hopes the books will go to a good home after everything. That manga looks interesting, and there's no doubt some kid would enjoy it so long as they never found out it belonged to a murdered man. Thumbing through a volume, his lips twitch; he pulls himself back, slotting the pastel green cover back amongst its soft-hued counterparts. _Stick to the plan, come on. There is much to be done._

The body is cooling after the kill and the additions. His hands are clean but the room is messy; torn-up cloth and blood splatters the floor, and Beyond eyes the mess warily. He can't just leave it like that. The blood isn't all that stains, and despite the careful crafting of the body, there are fingerprints everywhere. Damn, this sure was messy business.

In the corner is a small duffle bag, blacker than his recently-dyed hair, and inside sit the tools he needs for the most difficult part of the job. He rolls his shoulders as he leans down, stretching thin limbs under baggy clothing - he's working the disguise in, even though he isn't going to need it for a while - and pulling out a faded metallic can. A rag quickly follows it to the floor, and he eyes the scene again.

He hasn't seen that much red in a long time. It's rather lovely, even if it's a mess. But bleach only does so much, after all; the rest of it is good old-fashioned scrubbing. He has to be thorough, meticulous, or the tower will collapse before it's built. That would simply not do. But cleaning is so tortuously boring that he sometimes wishes he could hire help. If only there existed someone who actually enjoyed rubbing rags on linoleum, wallpaper, and even chandeliers. Beyond doubts that's possible, so loathsome is the task.

Despite the tedium that awaits him every step of the way, he's jittery and amused. He smiles without his eyes: it's there but also absent, plastered onto his lips and stretching his hollowed cheeks like a Glasgow smile. Watching L's right-hand man struggle with his clues, watching L strain to find proof, watching L... it's going to be perfect. With Believe Bridesmaid's death, the game has begun; all that's left is for L to take the bait.


	4. Vox (BB)

He stands in the corner of an old classroom, wooden chairs and wooden desks and faded peeling posters embellishing the beige space; it's a lot like Wammy's House, but is missing something. The air is actually calm, not a false illusion of the feeling, so no, it isn't Wammy's House. And just because there are no edges doesn't mean it isn't a mirror he's looking into. He's either Beyond Birthday or L; he doesn't know anymore. When he opens his mouth to talk, there's no sound, not even the rush of air that follows speech. Nevermind. This facade started itself and will end itself a hundred times over, and this is no exception. Will he let you do it? Will he allow it to happen again? The man in the room says something, his words clear and concise, and still they don't make an ounce of sense. Then he looks at him, eyebrows close together. Watching. Waiting.

The match in his hands drops, and the dance plays out again. He should feel the heat, God knows _he_ knows agonising it feels; he's been there, shrieking and twisting atop pillars of fire. But there's nothing like a stringless marionette moving alone. All he can do is watch himself jerk. And L - because yes, it _is_ L, how didn't he see it before? - watches too, grey eyes glassy and heartbeat cold. He doesn't stop him. He doesn't even blink.

Beyond wakes, unable to scream. The fire has stolen his voice in this realm too.


	5. Opalescent (Misa)

If she had a heart, it would be opalescent. Little specks of white on the background of darkness, that's her. Tiny tiny tiny_ tiny_ droplets that bend with the light, that swim with the stars in the sky - that is her soul, of course, and her soul alone. They can't take it away if they want to; she hides it so well from herself, this fictional gash in the centre of her ribcage, that they don't know even know it's there. They never find out, not when the beautiful Misa Amane pouts in front of a camera, not when the girl is suspended against greyness for so long her legs go numb, not when she finds out he's seeing the whore behind her back.

They don't even discover the droplets when her body hits the concrete, all stained cloth and red waves and not-white-anymore strips. Even when her mind fades away, where there's a shudder and not much else, the pearly gemdrops in her heart are intact and invisible. That's the Amane girl, really and truly her, and the endless expanse of black cannot dull her shine —


End file.
